


Amaranth

by apollonixus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Elves, Falling In Love, High Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Royalty, Winged Lance (Voltron), Wingfic, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-22 16:05:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17062793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollonixus/pseuds/apollonixus
Summary: "Keith takes a gulp of air before he goes under, expecting the ocean to be a violent torrent of strength. Instead, the wings press him closer, keeping him safe from an otherwise lethal  force. The two of them sink with a swarm of bubbles and though the wings kept Keith from being crushed, they don't stop him from taking in water through his nose. He shuts his eyes, squeezes them tight because there's no way he could get out of the strange boy's grasp now. He's too strong, too powerful and Keith is weak from hours of battle, from explosions and firing bullets and the sudden deaths that befell around him.Something soft presses onto his lips.And then, suddenly, there is air."* Keith leads a simple life in the countryside of the realm, where his biggest worry is keeping his belly full and his body warm. Plagued by a strange reoccurring dream, of a boy with wings and a war that is not his own, he does his best to keep the world in a realistic perspective. But all of it comes crashing down when he sees something, or rather someone, fall from the sky. This is where the adventure begins. *





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Super sorry in advance for any mistakes.

 

**_Amaranth: a flower that never fades_ **

 

**_******_ **

 

_Keith is falling._

_The sky shines bright between his outstretched fingers but his desperate reaching toward something solid remains futile. Explosions rock the sky, forcing more and more shrapnel into bodies with sickening accuracy._

_Soon, it will be his turn._

_He knows this, he can see no real way out of it, but there's no doubt that he doesn't want to die. Not yet, at least._

_Not like this._

_The war has been lost, that much he knows. They were the last defense, the final front to keep the evil at bay. Below them, through the dark clouds, his planet is waiting for ruin. The people stare upward, hoping for the King's Fleet to fulfill their duty. To save them; to save the world._

_Keith wishes he could apologize. To each and every child, he wishes he could dispel their fear and tell them to remain strong._

_Wind whips through his dark hair, pulling it free from the confines of his helmet before that too falls away. His armor is broken, an entire piece torn from the side. No voices sound through the comm in his ears, no extra protection keeps his bones safe from puncture or breakage. Blood runs the length of his face from a wound he cannot see, pain blossoming with each sharp breath he takes through his nose._

_Someone screams but it's quickly snatched away by the wind, ripped off in a haunting pitch, a testament to the bodies falling around him._

_He never thought it would take so long to die. Shrapnel misses him by mere inches while heat from the explosion that took down the warship remains just out of reach of his face. The ground seems to far away, avoiding him with sadistic pleasure._

_Their fabled allies never showed up to help._

_Do they even exist? Was it all a lie? A ploy to get the soldiers ready for their final sacrifice?_

_Keith doesn't know. All he knows is that he is too late. Too late to do anything more, to save his land and his home, too late to save the oceans and fields and mountains that rise so far away-_

_It repeats in his mind: too late, too late, too late._

_Water pours from his eyes when he blinks, a slow motion in the wake of what happens next._

_The sky ripples._

_Like water, like cloth flowing in a wintry wind, there is a slight undulation before sections of open air flare with new light. It sends a vibration throughout the atmosphere, sonic booms resounding with the push of a heavier wind. It's strong enough to knock the breath of Keith's lungs completely. He gasps as the circular ripples open, the light of some foreign sun shining on his face with blessed warmth._

_And then they appear._

_Wings spread wide, these new beings begin a ferocious assault, casting ginormous shadows across the remaining fleet making ready to invade the planets vulnerable surface. Armor glints like molten fire; warriors from another world swing blades and throw spears, their wings flapping with powerful strokes. They aim at the monsters, at the army that had just landed the final blow to Keith's own._

_Soon, much too soon, Keith's sight is overtaken by the clouds. If he could scream he thinks that he would. But his breath is stolen away as the mist brushes against his skin, against the blood that refuses to dry. Closer now, Keith knows it won't take long to finally hit the ground._

_Above, however, the clouds begins to part. The mist evaporates with the arrival of enormous brown wings. They reflect the light in bursts of gold, shimmering against the air; glittering like gemstones in caves._

_Keith's eyes meet those of a boy, his brown skin streaked with blood, his own stare filled with frightening intensity. Features entirely different than Keith's own appear with startling clarity, sparse feathers line sharp cheeks, pointed ears sweep upward, the vacancy of an iris or pupil but the bright shine of cerulean within the sclera; inhuman. If not for imminent death below, Keith might be frightened. But the boy's fury soon turns to obvious panic, the spear in his hand suddenly thrust into a sheathe on his back and settled snug between his protruding wings._

_And then he is diving, crescent shaped marks on his cheeks glowing bright as a newborn day. He reaches forward, shouting something that Keith can't hear. The wings flap with mighty strokes and with them Keith can smell something new. Something fresh, almost floral against the copper coating the air._

_"Relivua onixe-" The boy's voice comes through in waves, the language foreign and sharp before new words finally ring clear. "Take my hand!"_

_And just like that, Keith is shocked out of his stupor. His hand rises, gloved fingers stretching toward that of the stranger's with newfound determination. The final expanse of the clouds pass over Keith's back and he glances to the side, seeing the huge toiling waves waiting for him below._

_If he hits that, he'll be dead._

_The flap of the boy's wings are deafening the closer he gets and Keith worries they'll simply push him further away, straight to his death even if they mean to do the opposite. He looks back to the boy and he knows he must appear horrified. Scared beyond his years, heart in his throat, Keith only has a few more seconds-_

_Warmth envelopes him. Deft fingers lock between Keith's own and he's snagged hard, breath leaving him with a sharp burst. The boy's own breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling against Keith's own through their differing armor. But the rescue doesn't stop the impact, it simply lessons the blow._

_Wings wrap around Keith like a barrier, meant to seal and protect, cocooning him within their warmth. The boy grunts and turns them around until Keith is practically cradled along the length of his body. He manages to get a closer look at the boy before the plunge, watching almost deliriously as his eyes shine with something celestial._

_Keith takes a gulp of air before he goes under, expecting the ocean to be a violent torrent of strength. Instead, the wings press him closer, keeping him safe from an otherwise lethal force. The two of them sink with a swarm of bubbles and though the wings kept Keith from being crushed, they don't stop him from taking in water through his nose._

_The burning liquid surges into his nostrils until he's forced to open his mouth, the salt stinging at the cuts on his lips. Breath leaves him and his lungs scream, panic racing along his bones. He shuts his eyes, squeezes them tight because there's no way he could get out of the strange boy's grasp now. He's too strong, too powerful and Keith is weak from hours of battle, from explosions and firing bullets and the sudden deaths that befell around him._

_Something soft presses onto his lips._

_And then, suddenly, there is air._

 

* * *

 

 

 

Keith wakes with a gasp, the sound violent in the night. He clutches at his chest, stuck in that elusive stage of half-sleep, the dream still resounding in his ears. He sees the bursting light and the wings and the boy, his eyes so blue and the way his armor shone with glinting silver. It's a fading thing, this dream. He tries his hardest to latch onto it, to embed it into his memory because this isn't the first time he's fallen to the water. It isn't the first time he's tasted blood in his mouth and reached toward an uncaring sun-

But already, these details are falling away. The loss of the dreamscape follows him when he stands to dress, the moon having just risen above the horizon. The knowledge that he's had the dream sticks to his thoughts when he checks that his arrows are sharpened; that his sword and knife are lethal enough to slice into thick flesh. And the final dregs of his sleep cloud behind his eyelids with each blink, the war he's never taken a part in haunting him to the core. By the time he hops over the wooden fence in the farthest field, he's mostly forgotten the rifts of the sky.

He walks and walks until he can stalk through the snow with quiet, wolfish steps. The crunch of ice is nothing more than a subtle sound, his breath leaving his cold lips in small pants as he tries to control his pace. Above his head the Northern trees grow strong and green even in the midst of winter, keeping him from the light of the bright full moon. It filters through the branches occasionally, brushing his skin in pretty silver but ultimately falling back to shadow soon after.

He knew it would be the perfect night for a hunt.

Stag and boar roam these hills in abundance and Keith likes to take advantage of it. In the hush of the night it is easy to listen for the brush of antlers on bark, to track hooved paths in the newly glistening snow.

Many have called him idiotic for his ventures.

 _Foolish._ They hiss, _The old Gods will have you for dinner._

But Keith has never been one to believe in such things. There is only the snow that falls from overcast clouds and the twinkling of stars, shining each night with wild abandon. There is his own heart pattering beneath the heft of his warm furs.

His fingers stretch on his bow, eyes trailing slowly from left to right, keeping pace with the wind. It brushes against his dark hair, sending tendrils across the pink flush of his otherwise pale cheeks. Somewhere in the far distance a howl echoes and bounces against the towering mountains. There's no need to worry over it considering his sword is snug at his hip. Heavy but nimble, it can cut through bark and bone alike.

Back home, through the webbed maze of the forest, his village waits in slumber. Fires have been put out, shutters locked, animals resting in warm stables. Snug in their own little part of the woods his best friend sleeps in a bed of soft down, unaware of Keith's late venture. It calms him, knowing he's bound to return with enough meat to feed the two of them for another few weeks. Better than relying on the village butcher, that's for sure. The man is known to charge coin up to the teeth.

Keith lets out a heavy breath and keeps his fingers shifting, flexing against the smooth side of his bow in order to keep the blood flowing. The arrow is docked and ready, a single dark feather brushing the leather clad fingers of his right hand. He takes a slow step, rolling his foot heel to toe, the crunch of the snow soft to his ears.

Yet, to his right, there is the sound of a twig cracking; too loud to be a wandering rabbit, too slow to be anything close to a fox. His ears prick and his pupils turning to slits, the dark of the trees giving way to signatures of heat. It's a hidden ability, one that Shiro deems a blessing while Keith figures it's more of a curse. It's a reminder that he's different, that no matter how much he pretends to ignore it, there is a void pit where his memories of childhood should be. Though, if Keith uses these abilities correctly, it does tend to make their life a bit easier.

He can rip flesh from bone with the sharpest points of his canines, no need arising for the bunt edge of their knives. He can see through the dark with ease, the act aiding him when mapping his surroundings. Now, he scans the trees with a slow roaming of his eyes. His breath ruffles the mountain lion fur on his shoulders as he comes to a stop, body tensing.

There, within the underbrush ahead, a creature lurks. And when it finally shows itself he feels confidence settle in his gut. There are no claws or sharp teeth awaiting him, no fur that bristles or growls that rise from the throat. Instead it is simply tall, gentle in the curve of its neck, hooves holding up a body rich with meat.

Keith lowers himself and relies on his calves to help his balance. He brings the bow to his shoulder and holds his breath, pupils expanding as the red figure lifts its head at the scent of him. The stag walks with slow steps, as if it were subconsciously aware of a predator's presence. But just as a wolf keeps to the shadows to kill, Keith waits like frost traveling along the ground.

 _Patience, Keith._ Shiro always tells him during their early spring hunts, _Patience yields focus._

The stag bends to sniff at the foliage and Keith wishes it would hurry, trying to keep his thoughts from the growing discomfort of his legs. And then, just as his second row of teeth begins to protrude from his gums, the stag looks up. Neck stretched, chest free of coverage and the cage of its antlers-

Keith lets the arrow fly.

His breath leaves him in swift exhale as the arrow soars through the air, cutting through brush and branch until it slams into the stag's young heart. Keith immediately rises and sprints before pushing his hood away from the sharp angles of his face. His eyes clear and normal vision returns, the thrill of the hunt passing through him as quickly as it came. Like every time he brings down a living creature, there is a somber weight that befalls his chest. It reminds him to pay his respects. He gets to his knees and rests a gloved hand on the animals head, fingers resting against the soft fur.

Closing his eyes for only a moment, it's important that he centers himself. He allows himself to feel, to differentiate himself from the men and women in the village. They enjoy ripping into the animals and selling them like beaded jewelry at the market, uncaring for the life it once lived.

Keith, on the other hand, likes to think Shiro would be proud of him. When he found Keith as a child he said there was something feral in his eyes; something that didn't want to be tamed, that remembered the things Keith now forgets.

Shaking his head, Keith tugs the arrow free and pushes it into the snow, cleaning the rough stone of the hot, dark blood. When he's finished he places it with the others in the large satchel on his back. It takes barely any time at all for him to lace a thick rope around the stag's ankles, to pull it taut and wrap it around his upper arm so that it will keep from slipping. With a heave he shifts the stag until it is ready to be dragged through the snow.

It's a long trek back home but Keith doesn't really mind.

He welcomes the night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Light streams in with a flash, washing over Keith's face in a burst of color.

He groans and rolls onto his stomach, pushing his head beneath the thick wool of a heavy blanket. Somewhere, morning birds sing through the brisk air. Closer, water boils on a fire, the crackle and bubble a comforting sound.

"It appears Flriða has left us a present!" Shiro yanks the blanket from Keith's legs, the name of the Goddess of the Winter Hunt rolling off his tongue. "That, or my foolish friend left home in the dead of night without warning me. _Again._ "

Whether he wishes to or not, Keith can't help but smirk. "No idea what yer' talking about."

Shiro scoffs and rips the blanket away from Keith's body completely, "You brought the stag home, how about you gut it?"

Keith groans again and reaches an arm out, trying and failing to swat at Shiro's legs. The bed is low to the ground but very soft, built several summers ago by their own hands. The wood smells of the local pine and it is very smooth to the touch, small little etchings of stars and the runes of sleep still resting against the headboard.

"Exactly, _I brought it home."_ Keith argues, trying and failing to open his eyes completely. "Thought that'd be enough work from me. Why don't _you_ do it-"

"I woke up for warm bread and honey." Shiro ruffles his hand through Keith's unruly hair, "You brought this work upon yourself the moment you entered those woods."

With that, Shiro is gone. The door to their small house closes with a distant bang and outside the chopping of wood soon joins the chirp of the birds.

Keith rolls onto his back and breathes it in; this simple life.

Years ago Shiro had journeyed to the inner lands of the Kingdom of Vrotharia looking as if he'd been to the underworld and back. People had stared, taking in his burnt cloak and the gruesome healing scar on his nose; the bandaged stub of his shoulder and the way he didn't seem to see any of them in return. He'd been determined to make court with the king, to tell of the attacks on the farmlands further south.

But Shiro never made it to the castle.

It just so happens that a young boy the age of eleven, uncaring and unafraid of Shiro's war torn body, had tried to steal all of the coin from his pocket. Now, Keith can only smile at the memory. He remembers Shiro's stern face and the way his eyes had given way to something uniquely kind. Something rare, considering most others would have backhanded Keith with enough force to send him sprawling. And later, many would have turned him in to the orphanage where he'd have gone to bed hungry and cold and alone.

Ten years later, the two of them are here instead.

Strange, how things turn out in a world like this.

"Up!" Shiro shouts through the open window, "Get to gutting this stag before a bear decides to make a visit!"

With a huff, Keith rubs at his eyes and clears his mind before rising.He washes himself with a small rag, the frigid water splashing onto his face sending shivers running the length of his spine. He dresses warmly though not as much as the night before. Come mid-morn the sun will beat down on them just enough to break a sweat.

Keith grimaces at the thought.

He pushes his boots onto his feet and laces them to the upper ankle, shoving his thick pants inside with ease. And then he's out of the bedroom door, eyes taking in their small home, looking fondly upon the cobbled stone walls and the table made by hand. Dried meats hang above a wash basin and weapons lounge on the only soft cushions they have- mostly useless considering they simply head straight to their beds most nights. Living the life they've chosen to live is tiring and even though they enjoy staying up late to sit around warm fires, nothing is as relieving as resting upon the feathers of their pillows.

Keith passes through the door leading outside and breathes in the morning air, finding his spirits risen now that he knows they won't starve anytime soon. The stag is already strung up by the outer wall, the likes of which is built from rough stone and dried clay. Keith grabs a knife from the slab of a table near a pile of chopped wood and wipes it once or twice on his shirt, the blade sharp enough to cut the fabric if he were to angle it just right.

Sniffing, he can smell the smoke of last night's fire lingering in the air and the fresh bark of the logs Shiro chops. He can smell the cleanly fallen snow and the wintry pine, the copper of bloody meat.

Neither of them know why he is the way that he is.

The older he got the more pronounced his senses became. His sight could fix on distant objects and living creatures, his smell capable of tracing footpaths through several inches of even the thickest snow.

Shiro calls him a Godchild; a kid born from the Gods or something wholly universal, something cosmic and intergalactic and celestial. All Keith can do is laugh at such titles.

Digging the knife into the stag, Keith tries to ignore the stench of the meat. It's not inherently unpleasant but it isn't very nice either. He tugs and slices, fingers digging to throw entrails to the crows. The fur is shaved and placed into a branch woven basket, the rest simply picked up and carried away by the wind. He cuts the antlers free and sets them aside, eyes already alight with possibility. The hooves he can use for arrow heads and paper weights, the thicker skin turned into sturdy leather.

Each and every bit of the animal can be put to use.

Shiro grunts behind him as he settles logs onto the growing pile. The glinting metal o fhis arm is rustic at best but not the worst, the inventor from the city having accepted a lower price than many others would dare. Shiro stretches the faux fingers on his right arm and glances at Keith, offering up a bright smile. A smile that Keith puts to memory, locked and safe just in case.

In case of the worst; of war finding its way this far north, of them becoming separated, of his memories betraying him as it seems they've done for the earliest part of his life.

Keith gives a small smile and gets back to work, ridding himself of hopeless thoughts.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Later that night, Keith drinks ale from a warm mug. Crafted with interwoven knots and designs, it sits rustic in his hand. The cider warms his throat and it makes his eyelids heavy, his lashes brushing the crest of his cheeks with each slow blink.

The fire in the hearth flickers, casting shadows around the room. Wind howls outside of their house and Keith sinks lower in his chair, letting the blanket draped across his shoulders keep his head from resting at a painful angle.

Shiro admires Keith's handiwork, turning his own mug around in his large hands.

"Intricate." He says, "How long did this pair take?"

Keith shrugs, "A few hours. Set over night and then fired again."

"Just as good as your blades." Shiro nods, "You did always put a lot of care into crafts like this."

"Yeah, yeah." Keith rolls his eyes.

The way his mind turns to artistry is something he doesn't usually reflect on. The things he could sell if he truly wanted to are simply the rewards of a hobby and rarely does he do it with money on his mind. He doesn't think of prices it could sell for when his hands are in the process of shaping a mold, he doesn't wonder who would buy the rounded bowls and curved blades and smooth cups. He simply does it as if he were called to; as if there was nothing more natural than turning metal above burning flame.

"Well, you have a talent." Shiro takes a hefty gulp of his cider. "Don't give it up."

Keith shifts his gaze, never one to enjoy compliments. "Aren't you tired, old man?"

Shiro looks bemused and only slightly offended but he rises to place his mug in the basin anyway. His hands are calloused and scarred yet he handles the mug with infinite care. Gentle swipes of his fingers travel over the cup as the fresh water from their natural well travels through their makeshift pipes and into the basin.

They don't say goodnight when he's finished. They never do, though neither of them think much of it. It's a simple routine, this nightly talk and drink. Calm and comforting, Keith relishes sitting in his home after a hard day full of work. They mend the horses and goats, chop wood and smoke meat, fix broken or aged tools and resettle shingles on their low hanging roof.

It's hard difficult work but they like it.

 _"Nothing's as hard as the war."_ Shiro sometimes says, voice slurred from the rum they store within the wooden chest by the door. _"I'll never return to those lands. Let me grow my plants, watch them rise. They can keep their bloodshed."_

Keith watches Shiro close the door to his room, oil lamp put out almost immediately after.

The quiet that follows settles on Keith like a blanket and his ears prick, listening to the distant hoot of a barn owl in the forest. A road rests several miles up a hill to the west and he listens for the rattle of carriage or stomp of hoof; anything that should make him stay awake any longer.

After another full hours, Keith gives up his night watch. He dumps the rest of his cider and enters his own room, remembering only moments before he falls asleep to take off his boots. And then he's out like a light, mind drifting to even quieter places. To places full of peace, full of sunshine and endless warmth.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _"Fuck you!"_ Keith shouts, throwing stones at the coyote's that take off across the hills.

He throws another and another, until his arms are tired and the animals are long gone. The meat he'd left to dry in the tool shed has been ransacked, the wooden wall having been ripped into with gnarly teeth.

"If they risked getting this close they must be starving-"

Keith turns to Shiro and glares, breath leaving him in heavy pants. "Now _we'll_ starve come the next heavy snow!"

"Keith, calm down-"

"I trekked all night for that stag! It was the biggest yet, like a damn monster in the woods-" Keith throws his hands into the air, "They'll all have headed south for the winter by now!"

"We can go to the city, sell some things." Shiro tries to reason. "Barter for some beaver and hare."

 _"Beaver."_ Keith hisses and wipes a hand on his brow, "Beaver won't keep us alive for five months, Shiro."

"It's better than nothing."

They stare at each other; two sides of a similar coin. Keith burns and burns, cheeks heated and chest aching with anger. He wants nothing more than to hunt the damn coyotes down and tear them apart, make them the dinner they stole.

Shiro walks forward and places a calming hand on Keith's shoulder, eyes urging him to breathe. It takes a long while but eventually, slowly, Keith feels his own shoulders drop from their tense position. His fingers unclench and his jaw relaxes.

With a clearer head, he nods. Just once, as if to promise that he'll be alright.

"Good." Shiro sighs and lets his hand fall, eyes rising to roam the towering pines behind Keith. "I'll pack and go myself. You need to stay and keep working on the new barn."

Keith glances at the goats and horses, "Yeah. Right."

"It'll be okay, Keith." Shiro tries to meet his eye, "Everything always works out. I'll be back in two weeks. Until then, eat the rest of the boar jerky."

The most Keith can do in response is grunt. If he were to try to talk again he fears he'll end up shouting. Maybe even scream at the sky like he used to do to let out all of his frustration, intent to remind the Gods that it's his legs that ache, that it's his fingers that burn from arrow string and the cold.

The Gods don't do shit.

After Shiro has turned back to the house to pack his bag, Keith kicks at the wall he'll now have to mend. The stone he'd ripped from the others had been small but ultimately important. Without it, this entire portion has crumbled. He grimaces and pulls his fur closer to his neck, urging the warmth to soak into his body.

He'd just begun to retrieve the first flung stone when Shiro makes his way up, heading toward the paths that lead to the road. He ruffles Keith's hair and says goodbye, smile calming the inner storm that remains transfixed in Keith's core.

"I'll be back soon!" He calls when he's further away. One hand raising in a wave while his free hand sits on the drinking horn settled on his belt, right next to the sword that helped him forge his way north all those years ago. "Don't stay up too late tonight!"

Keith debates throwing the stone at him, something playful rising in the wake of his annoyance. Instead, he simply waves back albeit sarcastically. Shiro lets out a loud laugh and turns to climb the hill, long furred coat trailing in the frosty grass behind him. He treks higher and higher until he's giving one final wave.

And then he's gone, down the other side of the hill and further still; to the bustle and sea of people in a distant city. He'll head to one closest to the castle, where flags fly against the sky and the chance of finding good deals on meat is easier than those in their own village.

The moment he's gone, Keith feels the world grow colder.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Keith curses his own strength.

He's been collecting stones for what feels like hours though he knows it's been only minutes. He swipes them up and puts them in the basket at his hip, the clack of them hitting his leg the only other sound around. Not even the wind whistles in his ears.

In a way, Keith is suspicious of this kind of quiet.

Different than that of the night, the afternoon settles around him in a lonely way. In a frightening way, if only because he knows Shiro is hours away from him now. The sun shines in silver light, close enough to dip behind the distant mountains of Ödrana. Snow clouds linger, promising a heavy settle later into the night.

Keith sighs and bends to pick up the last stone, knowing he'll have to get the animals into their stables sooner rather than later. He takes the step that will lead him down the safest path on the hill and debates sliding the rest of the way as if he were a child.

Distantly, there is a flutter of wings. For a moment he ignores it and thinks it is simply a flock of geese heading south for winter. But with geese there is always the honking that grates at his ears.

This flutter is without obnoxious noise; it is silent. Silent, save for the beating of a frantic heart.

Keith furrows his brows and turns just in time to see a large figure falling from the sky. Distant and dark, he watches the silhouette descend from the light of the sun into the dark forest near the mountains. Like a fallen star come to earth, it blazes a fiery path.

A point of destination.

Keith winces as the figure slams into the branches, the sound loud in his ears before the telltale puff of a body impacting snow.

Without another thought, Keith is taking off. He drops the basket of stone and his boots kick up mud and melted snow. He wants to blame his frantic run on desperation, on the thought of some foreign eagle from the mountains becoming food. But there is the curiosity, too.

He makes it to the forests edge with the push and pull of his breath, remembering with a halting stop that he has no weapon. That he'd passed the main road with no worry to traveling thieves. That he's about to enter a wood that he rarely hunts in, where mountain cats and feral wolves could rip him to shreds.

But his head tilts at the strange flutter of a heartbeat, the sound loud against random steps from frightened animals running away. With a steeling of his nerves, Keith pushes his way through the thick of the underbrush.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The trees are dark and towering, shrouded in deep green and brown. Keith blinks a few times and welcomes the change of his pupils, enjoying the way the forest begins to glow. A hopping rabbit glows in red in hi peripheral but he doesn't turn to look. An owl sits high above but he doesn't raise his head.

He takes careful steps as he sprints, guided by his own instincts until the fallen form finally comes into view. Heated unlike any animal he's yet to encounter and larger still, the creature's chest rises and falls beneath a blanket of fallen branches and foliage.

Keith hurries and surveys the surrounding area, glancing up only once to see the destruction the creature wreaked in the treetops. Branches are snapped in half, leaves torn from limbs; a testament to a brutal fall.

With a shake of his head, Keith blinks until the heat signatures fade away. The forest returns in normal color, all shadowed and frigid. He takes slow steps forward now, until he's close enough to bend at the knees. He reaches a careful hand forward and tugs away a rather heavy branch. Leaves clear and Keith catches sight of brown feathers, the likes of which are large and silky. He's quick to brush away the ice, fingers too cold themselves to feel much of anything. But then he works his way up, eager to see what the feathers are connected to.

He works diligently, eyes wide at the discovery-

His breath hitches in his throat.

His heart misses a beat.

The bird that fell from the sky is no bird at all.

With shaky fingers, Keith reaches forward and presses his thumb and forefinger to the boy's chin. He turns his head slowly, eyeing the way the boy's hair falls across his brown face, bloody and bruised and shadowed by hunger.

And though Keith had pushed his dream to the back of his mind, there's no way he could have prepared himself for this. The boy is hauntingly familiar but instead of acting as Keith's savior, he is comatose.

He looks _dead_.

Keith takes only another moment to take it in. To wonder at a boy, how this particular boy, could possibly fall from the sky. How he could slip from Keith's dreams into this world, where things are living and breathing and practical.

With a strong burst of cold wind, Keith is shocked from his thoughts and he goes to work clearing the rest of the fallen foliage from the boy's body, mouth curled into a frown at the sight of such a thin frame. His clothes look as though they were once grand, full of golden trim and wispy material. But now they are torn, dirty beyond repair and near the hem there is something dark. Something stained.

Keith knows it is blood.

With a grunt he lifts the boy by the underarm and lets his head loll onto his own forearm. Keith grips him beneath his knees and picks him up as if he were a bride on a wedding night. The boy is light but his pulse jumps at his throat, letting Keith know that his ears are not deceiving him.

The boy is alive.

Keith gets to his feet and heaves him a bit higher, until his head can rest in the crook of his neck. He can't look down but he can feel the subtle huff of his breath and the enormous weight of his wings. Wings that make Keith let out a sharp breath, jaw ticking with the clenching of his teeth.

He makes his way through the snow but the man doesn't shift an inch, not even a flutter of his eyes given to show that he may soon wake.

Instead, his wings simply trail on the ground.

A feather falls free.

And Keith walks on.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Keith makes it home just before dusk, when the sky is beginning to glow in shades of orange and amber. He winces against the light of the setting sun and huffs out a large breath, his limbs aching from carrying the boy through the forest. Each step he takes gets closer to a falter and if he isn't careful, he fears he'll end up collapsing with a sprained ankle.

He passes the outer fields and the wall of stone, the drinking well and his horses, their curious gaze following his form all the way to the house. Thunder rumbles over the mountains and he feels it to his core, as if some God were congratulating him; or, perhaps, warning him.

The boy in his arms could very well end his life. It wouldn't be hard to imagine considering Keith has no idea who, or what, he truly is. Their lore and myths have birds of ice and men with the legs of a stag but as he wracks his brain, trying to think of creatures with wings as large as this, he can't recall anything.

With a grunt Keith lowers the boy onto his own bed, mindful of the huge wings and the brush of the feathers against the floor. Sprawled like this, the boy looks even more ravaged than before. Now that Keith can study him, he takes notice of the dried blood that flakes around his neck and the way his lips are exceptionally dry. His cheeks are gaunt, hair stringy against his temples- obviously dehydrated and starved, perhaps even suffering from copious amounts of blood loss.

Keith runs a hand through his hair and wipes at the perspiration now going cold. Looking at the boy for a moment longer, he knows he can't lift the blanket from beneath him now. Instead, Keith quickly rummages through an oak chest at the foot of his bed and pulls free a wolf skin blanket, the fur still soft and warm. He fluffs it above the boy before letting it fall, glad to see that it's long enough to cover a good amount of his wings.

"Hold tight." Keith whispers before leaving the room.

He takes his own furs from his shoulders and quickly lights the logs in their small hearth, glad to hear the crackle of newborn fire. He fills a pot with water and brings it to a boil, making sure the soup he intends to make will remain steaming until the boy wakes. Next, he gathers two bowls of water and a cloth and soon finds his way back to the room.

There was a small hope in him that the boy would be awake by the time he returned. But when he passes through the door he sees that the boy hasn't moved an inch and his wings remain limp. Keith pulls up a chair and dips the cloth into a bowl, the quiet drip of droplets almost comforting in contrast to the circumstances. He makes sure the boys head is elevated before letting the water fall onto his dry mouth, watching for any sign of consciousness: a twitch in the cheek, a flutter of his eyelids or lashes.

Nothing.

"Come on." Keith says, brows furrowing in growing discomfort.

He dips the cloth again and presses a thumb on the boy's dirty chin, waiting for the parting of his lips before letting the water fall into his open mouth. He makes sure the stream is slow, to not overwhelm him into choking. But thankfully, blessedly, Keith sees the boy's throat bob.

"There you go." He says, relief pouring into him at the sight.

He repeats this until he knows the boy has been re-hydrated enough to survive. Then, very carefully, Keith pulls the blanket down just a tad. He eyes the dried blood and looks for a source, fingers moving gently along his ribs, feeling for broken bones and sprains. Finding none, Keith makes quick work of cleaning him up.

The cloth makes hushed sounds as it passes over the boy's skin and soon enough the second bowl is dark with dirt and ash and a color similar to rust. He leaves to toss it into the yard before refilling it, eyeing the water for only a second to make sure it isn't burning or boiling over into the logs.

For the next hour he gets the boy as clean as possible, keeping the cloth trailing along his body and legs before moving to his face, eyes roaming. The boy's lashes are long and thick, his nose sharp and his jaw sharper, a light spread of freckles lining the crests of his cheeks. Keith passes the cloth above his brow and dabs his temples, pushing his stringy hair away from his forehead.

"What happened to you?" He whispers, brows furrowed at the thoughts that arise.

It looks as though the boy had been put through the trials of the underworld. That he'd fought and fought and barely survived the brunt of something dark; something evil. Keith gulps and rings out the cloth, feeling the cool water brush against his pruning fingers. When he looks up, he jumps hard enough that the bowls crash to the ground.

The boy's eyes are open.

With a shaky breath, Keith drops his cloth and takes a step closer, unsure of what he should say. All he can do is stare and stare, his own eyes wide with shock. The boy gulps and grimaces, his blinks worryingly slow. When he tries to sit up he lets out a pained gasp, his feathers fluttering and shaking.

"Whoa." Keith says, watching as the boy flinches at the sound of his voice. "You're alright. Don't try to move too much-"

_"Anraith va tor-"_ The boy coughs, the sound violent and wet in his chest. His voice is frantic, full of warning and fright. 

Keith reaches forward, managing to catch him before he falls off of the bed completely. Against Keith's own chest the boy feels frail, as thin as the twigs on a barren tree. He wracks with coughs and Keith holds him up until they pass, feeling the heavy push of wings at his back. They encase them both for a moment, knocking over a dresser and Keith's chair.

When everything calms, the boy doesn't try to move away. And when Keith finally settles him back into the bed, the boy doesn't open his eyes again.

 

* * *

 

After making sure the boy was warm and resting, Keith hurried to take care of his animals. The goats were in high spirits and the chickens crowded around his feet in a way they haven't done since they were little chicks. He clicks his tongue and feeds them well before leading them to the coop, confused as ever. When he finally walks the horses to the stables, he apologizes by feeding them more apples than should be allowed.

"It's late, I know." He says, running his hand along the nape of Pyria.

The horse is a beautiful Friesian, her coat as dark as midnight. Keith smirks at the light spattering of red in her tail, remembering how shocked Shiro was to see color on her at all. Her mane is long and braided but he takes his time brushing it out, knowing she loves the attention. Though they have two other horses, there's no denying the bond Keith and Pyria have.

"We have a guest." Keith says, mostly talking to himself. But the horse looks to him anyway, glad to hear his voice. "I'm not sure who he is or where he's from. But you saw him, didn't you? You saw how strange he looks."

Pyria huffs, her hoof lifting an inch before she puts it back to the ground in a solid stomp.

"Yeah." Keith smirks, "Really strange."

Finishing the brushing of her coat, Keith lets her eat another apple from his open palm, the soft brush of her mouth comforting. He places his forehead against her own and though the stables need a good deep cleaning, he can still feel the remnants of the sun on her skin. He can still breathe in the way she smells like home.

 

* * *

 

Though it had been Keith's intention to stay up for the rest of the night by the time the moon rose high in the sky he was fast asleep. He didn't dream but he didn't wake either, at least not until the sun began to shine bright against his face. For a fleeting moment he forgot about the previous day and simply waited for Shiro to barge in with a new list of chores. But when that didn't happen, and there was no sound other than his own slow breathing, everything came rushing back.

He throws the blankets from his body and sits up in Shiro's bed, heartbeat hammering in his chest. There's no possible way the boy could have left but he still fears it, half accepting the chance that he's gone.

Yet when he opens the door to his room, the boy is still there.

"Who are you?"

Keith can't place the accent. It's a rolling, elegant thing that curls around his ears and sends bumps running the length of his skin. It sounds ancient and new; a contradiction to Keith's own harsh, human language. In the North the accent of the people is rolling and thick, sitting heavily in the throat. The boy's, though cracking and weak, still manages to be as light as air.

"You're awake." Keith breathes, gaze jumping from the boy's tense wings to the shard in his hand, obviously taken from one of the bowls that fell to the ground.

_"Aieltra."_ The boy hisses, "Answer me. Who are you?"

The boy's eyes are the hottest part of a burning flame, blue as crystal in the coves of Søtrun Bay; as bright as the stars that sit on the horizon in the summer. Regardless of his almost broken state, his eyes show strength and determination. And, if Keith isn't careful, the intent to kill to keep himself alive.

"I won't harm you." Keith raises his hands in what he hopes is a placating, nonthreatening act. "My name is Keith. Keith Kogane."

The boy twists his lips, body shifting as if he were about to pounce-

"I saved your life." Keith rushes out, "You fell in the woods near my home. I followed your descent and brought you here. I've kept you warm. _Safe_."

"Where am I?"

Keith lowers his hands and inches forward, wary and careful. "The Northern realm of Vrotharia."

"Vrotharia." The boy repeats, words stilted with unfamiliarity.

Keith nods.

As if he has no more strength to hold the shard up, the boy lets it fall to his lap as he sags back into the pillow. He brings a hand to his face and rubs at his eyes, fingers shaking.

"I've never-" Keith shifts his eyes away when the boy looks at him, "You aren't from here, I'm assuming."

The laugh that leaves the boy is dark. Tired. He shakes his head and his wings droop further, until almost half of them are splayed on the floor.

"No. I am not from here."

"Do you have a name?" Keith asks, hoping he can get an answer from him before he inevitably succumbs to exhaustion again.

The boy stares at him in contemplation. Keith can see him gauging the environment, the way he tilts his head; the way his strangely shaped ears listen for any sign of a threat. Golden cuffs on the lobes glint in the light of the sun but Keith can't focus on them now.

Keith is nervous.

For the first time in a long time, he's on edge. But eventually, after several long seconds, the boy looks away.

When he speaks again, his voice is somber. "My name is Lanthlariel." He sighs, "But many call me Lance."

 

* * *

 

Keith watches Lance eat soup and can't help but wonder if he's wrinkling his nose at the heat or the taste. It's not as if Keith thinks he's a wonderful cook but he doesn't really think he's terrible at it either. He tries not to be offended.

"Too hot?" He asks, arms crossed from where he leans against the opposite wall.

Lance glances up at him before looking back to the soup, his third bowl within the last forty minutes. The moment the first had been placed in his hands he'd downed it with only a small grunt of pain, his throat bobbing with fervor. Now, however, Keith supposes he's actually slowed down enough to taste it.

"Too salty." He sniffs and places the bowl in his lap, hands laying flat on either side. "Where I come from, the food is cold and sweet."

"Well." Keith shrugs and worries his face is turning an embarrassing red, "We have to eat hearty things here. Meat and breads and salty soups...they keep us alive in the winter."

Lance hums and Keith stalks forward to take the bowl away now that he's finished.

"Do you want to try to stand? Maybe get a bath-" Keith stops short the moment he returns from placing the bowl in the sink.

Lance has broken out in a sweat, his eyes fluttering as if he were on the verge of feinting. Where his skin was only just beginning to gain a flush of color, now it appears waxy; ill. Keith rushes forward and has a hand on his head before Lance can try to push him away.

"Fever." Keith pulls back and reaches for the water on the bedside table, quickly bringing it to Lance's lips. "You must have an infection somewhere."

When Lance doesn't reply, Keith tries again. "Are you hurt? I tried to check but your wings," The words feel awkward on his tongue, "they make it a bit difficult.."

Lance gulps and reaches a shaky hand toward his shoulder. "My back-"

He shifts just enough for Keith to lean over and look. His hair brushes Keith's chin and his arms hold tight to Keith's shirt before falling away. Keith searches through the feathers with his eyes until managing to catch sight of dark, dried blood.

"Do you mind?" He asks before Lance gives a small shake of his head, urging him to do it.

Keith reaches down and brushes his fingers through the soft down, stomaching churning when he feels skin give away to broken, torn flesh. And, soon, splintered bone.

"Fuck." He whispers, quickly bringing his hand back.

The moment he's moved away, Lance retches. He leans over just enough to miss the bed before all of the soup comes up, splattering onto the floor with a harsh stench. Keith jumps into action, not even caring that the vomit is soaking into the hardwood.

"This will hurt." He warns.

But Lance, regardless of his feverish state, holds an expression of fierce understanding. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before beginning the torture of turning to his stomach. The wings are cramped in the small room and Keith can only imagine how it must feel. They drag along the floor and across the bed, brushing against the walls and window until Lance can rest on his stomach with huffing, quivering breaths.

Keith gets a new cloth and steps outside to gather ice, quickly wrapping it before bringing it to Lance.

"Rest your head on this." He says, making sure it's pressed into his skin. "I'm going to try to help you as much as I can."

"Just do it." Lance says, voice once again growing weak and drowsy. A moment later he adds a quiet, "Please."

Keith nods even though the boy can't see it.

The moment he parts the feathers, the sight is ghastly. It smells rank and he can spot the infection, the way the skin looks inflamed and swollen and discolored. He doesn't ask where the wound came from and he doesn't try to understand why it's there in the first place. All he can do is reach beneath his bed for his chest full of herbs and bandages and needles, knowing now that he's working against an unfair clock. That if he's not quick and precise, Lance will die.

So, with a sinking heart, he gets to work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait and the shortish chapter! Comments are super appreciated!
> 
> Friesian horses are freaking beautiful so ofc Keith needs to have one. 
> 
> I hope you continue to read and enjoy this story <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to writing for other people to see so I hope you like this!


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